


Braise

by Phosphorite



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Background hints at Promptis, Cooking, Flashbacks, M/M, Sad Grown Men, Years in the making
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 16:40:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13574631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: braised, braising:to cook (meat, fish, or vegetables) by sautéeing in fat and then simmering slowly in very little liquid.or,For eight years neither one of them has spoken about that day.But for eight years, neither one of them also forgot.[birthday fic for mackerel_pizza ♥]





	Braise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mackerel_pizza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mackerel_pizza/gifts).



> Hello again!
> 
> This is a story I wrote for my best friend because not only do I owe her like a gazillion birthday fics for being my beta, but also because she's been such a great sport at enabling / listening to me rant about FFXV for idk how long. So, I wanted to gift her something 100% tailor-made for her tastes: food-themed Gladnis with the focus on Sad Grown Men being soft and sad (but also with a happy ending, because I'm nice to my friends like that. Sometimes.)
> 
> Also, there's some subtle Promptis hints thrown in there for good measure because I'm ME okay and you can't sue me. But uh yeah just ignore those if that's not your jam.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy! If not, that's cool too.

 

No-one has ever lived in the past.  
No-one will ever live in the future.  
The present is the form of all life.

\- Alpha 60, _Alphaville_ (1965)

 

 

It’s a little ridiculous, the way he comes across the flower.

There’s virtually a three second window where it happens— between having the wind knocked out of his lungs, and rolling to the left before the shell of the Iseultalon collides with his head. Still, it’s a three second window during which his eyes connect with something in the dark, and that something that connects with his memory. 

Fifteen minutes later the daemon lies dead on the plain, corpse bleeding away in plumes of dark miasma. His arm bleeds in red, like it always does before a splash of green takes away the sting; it’s not his greatest performance to date, but he’s alive, and that’s what counts in the end.

That, and the flower that sways lightly in the wind some twenty feet away.

It’s a little bizarre, the way he still recognizes it; like part of him is not standing somewhere on the edge of Duscae, but on the fields outside Insomnia, on a day when the sky hung overcast with the slightest hint of rain.

 

_We’ve been here for daaays! We’re never gonna find it!_

_It’s only been two and a half hours, Prompto. This is what they call an exercise in character building._

_…Well, if it starts pouring down I’m gonna build myself a teleport and get the hell out of here._

_Oh, oh! Noct, you think if I climbed on your back you could warp-strike all the way home?_

_Uhh… I dunno, you wanna try?_

_C’mon, guys. I’m sure this is–– well, clearly an important thing we’re after. I’m sure we wouldn’t be combing these fields over and over for no good reason._ Right _, Iggy?_

_Huh, then it must be like… some kind of super duper special medicinal herb? What’s it do, cure toad_ and _confusion? No don’t tell me–– maybe Iggy finally found a fix for Noct’s resting bitch face? Or–– HEY, WAIT––_

_Ooh, nice work on the chokehold there, Noct._

_––Thanks, I try._

_Okay, there better be a VERY good reason I’ve not only fallen on my ass twice in the mud, but also lived through a royal assassination attempt!!_

_…A spice._

_Wait, what was that?_

_…We’re after a… rare spice. It only grows–– every few years, on these fields, and somewhere in Duscae. The flower is tremendously expensive._

_So… we’ve been rolling in dirt all afternoon because Specs wants to bake a fucking cake?_

_Language, Noct. Also, no, I did not intend to use it for_ baking _._

_As opposed to…_

_…Well, If you must know, I was planning on using it to braise a fish._

_OH MY GOD._

_Prompto, stop screaming. Gladio, stop laughing. And NOCTIS LUCIS CAELUM YOU WARP BACK DOWN FROM THAT CLIFF RIGHT THIS INSTANT—_

 

He remembers this, and the ten minutes he spent laughing at the sight of Ignis chasing after the crown prince; remembers how they ultimately found the spice, trapped in the seeds of a peculiar-looking flower. Remembers the ride home –in Ignis’ smart and modest car, with the faint scent of Ebony clinging to the seats– and the sight of something even rarer: a private, personal kind of smile, tugging on Ignis’ mouth before it had disappeared from the rearview mirror.

It has been eight years, give or take, since that day.

Six years, give or take, into this never-ending nightmare without Noctis; and yet, it all comes back in a single minute spent staring at that flower, like it was yesterday that they were pulling weeds on the fields of Insomnia and cleaning out the spills of Prompto’s energy drink on the front seat of Ignis’ car.

It makes no sense to think of this now.

The whole reason he narrowly avoided being skewered by the Iseultalon is because he’s needed here, in Duscae, to search for whomever the daemons haven’t already claimed; between here and Lestallum there are still–– people, lost and without faith, and it’s easier to keep hunting than to confront how little is left of his own.

Perhaps that’s exactly why he remembers, though.

Sure, he hasn’t heard of Ignis in–– well, over a few months, probably. Whether the man is still in Lestallum at all, only the Astrals know. It’s over a day’s worth of travel to get to the city, and there’s _no way_ it makes any sense to trek back just because he found a _rare spice_ ; there’s no way, no way, no way––

––is what someone smarter than him would probably say.

It may be a whole lot ridiculous, then, that when Gladio leans over the flower he doesn’t even think twice.

 

*

 

_Hey… I was thinking, after you’re done with Noct’s tutoring session, you wanna grab a bite?_

_…I’m afraid I already had lunch._

_…It’s just an expression, Iggy. Really, I just thought we could hang out a bit. No offence to Iris, but I don’t have that much in common with seven-year-old girls._

_I… You don’t have other friends to ask?_

_…Wow. Smooth. Okay, I’m just gonna ignore that because yes, I_ do _have friends, but no, not ones that have the same kind of clearance. So I figured, why not put two and two together? I’m sure you could use some chill after trying to cram advanced algebra into a certain spoiled prince._

_You… shouldn’t talk like that of Noctis. He’s your liege, too._

_Yeah, okay, you could clearly use some time off. So are you in or not?_

_It’s not…_

_Well?_

_…It’s just not part of today’s itinerary. Sorry, I think… It would mean pushing back my own study session, and maybe require rearranging dinner, and––_

_––Look, hey, I get it. I don’t usually have to jump through this many hoops to get someone to hang out with me, so if you’re not interested, that’s totally fine._

_I…_

_Hey, don’t sweat it. I guess I’ll just see you around some other time, yeah? Tell the kid I expect to see him doing warm-up laps at eight a.m. sharp – oh, and that he shouldn’t forget his breakfast scones in the locker room. They were super tasty, though._

_Wait, Gladio––_

_…Yeah?_

_…It’s… it’s nothing. I’ll… relay your message to the prince._

 

*

 

_One tablespoon of olive oil. Half of a large Allural Shallot, chopped. Three tablespoons of Schier Turmeric. Two ribs of chopped celery. Two carrots, sliced. Half a teaspoon of sweet pepper. One teaspoon of thyme. One bay leaf. A can of tomatoes._

He recites the recipe off memory, mentally crossing over the parts that he can leave out, replace, or simply cannot even entertain. The past few months have been… easier, in that regard, than some of the others: all the work they’ve put into making crops thrive in artificial light is slowly but surely beginning to pay off. The produce he finds delivered to his quarters every fortnight is Monica’s way of thanking him, lavish as it sometimes makes him feel.

Then again, it’s easy to become frugal in a world where the things you want the most are the ones out of your reach.

_Heat the oil. Add onion, garlic, carrots, celery. Heat while stirring for a few minutes._

It took him a while, after the incident in Altissia, to regain–– this. The confidence in all his senses, the focus of balance. Losing his eyesight was not a simple plunge into darkness, after all; instead, it rests before him like an impenetrable fog, through which it’s sometimes possible to make out shapes and sizes. That had been enough to keep him training until the damage to his vision no longer mattered, until it was nothing but another piece in the bigger puzzle of what made him _him_.

_Add the spices. Stir for coating. Add the bay leaf, the water, and bring to a simmer._

This is what makes him _him_.

This, and the loyalty to a King he can no longer serve; not in any other way apart from working his fingers to the bone until the day Noctis returns.

For the past six months or so this has meant taking residence in Lestallum, primarily for the purpose of helping Monica. He didn’t mean to stay so long, but it seems that these days there’s always something more to do, whether it’s with administration, infrastructure, or to simply motivate any hunters slowly forgetting the face of Cleigne in the morning. Indeed, these nights of quiet cooking have become so habitual that they help mask the strange loneliness that clings to him after, somewhere in the dead hours of dawn – some nights better than others, though.

Perhaps, this is why he forgets to pay attention to the hallway now, sensing the sound of footsteps when they pause outside his door. He adds in the tomatoes (fresh, not canned), then instinctively hovers a hand over the knife on the worktop; it’s nothing short of habitual too.

Finally, there’s a light knock.

“Iggy–– Ignis? This still your room? The guys downstairs said you should be home, so…”

His fingers flex, then move away.

In two strides he’s in the doorway, and the shadows shift in his field of vision. There aren’t many men he must lift his head to look at, but the gesture still comes like a muscle memory: the tilt of his chin, the subdued breath where his shoulders relax.

It all comes with a wave of something without a name (nostalgia? sentimentality? oh, how _trifling_ ), but his voice remains nothing if not calm.

“…Good evening, Gladio. To what do I owe this honour?”

Even through the fog, somehow he _knows_ Gladio must be smiling; and somewhere at the back of his mind, Ignis cannot help but think that––

(this is what makes you _you_ , too)

 

*

 

_Hey, so check this: I figured that if you send Prince Loserface down at six thirty, I can catch him the second he walks out of the elevator. No way to ditch practice, or pretend like he was sick when really he was holed up at that Argentum kid’s house eating potato chips until first period._

_…You mean, you wish to ambush Noct?_

_Essentially, yeah. Why, you got a better idea?_

_…Gladio, I know of personal experience that you cannot force him to do anything. It would be beneficial to each of us if you simply figured out a way to… motivate him, instead._

_Fine, then we’ll arrange a team of the Kingsglaive to scare the shit out of him at night so he finally recognizes the value in defensive combat._

_…Ah, yes. Nothing about this plan could possibly fail._

_C’mon, you know how hard it is to get him to focus on anything lately that isn’t that runt from his school. Help me out here, we were almost done with grappling!_

_Well… I suppose I could only serve him coffee for breakfast until he has a good enough track record at arriving to practice in a timely manner._

_Passive-aggressive mental warfare, huh? …Not exactly my style, but I like it._

_Glad to be doing business with you, Mr. Amicitia._

_Hahah, since when did you get all boss like that? Am I finally rubbing off on you?_

_…Not at all._

_Oh,_ sure _. Say, d’you ever finish that extracurricular syllabus you were supposed to work on the night we went to see the Assassins of Crestholm Channels?_

_…I believe someone called my name just now. I must be needed elsewhere._

_Hah! I knew it! I am rubbing off on the great Ignis Scientia after all!_

_…I wouldn’t sound as delighted about it if I were you._

_What if I do, though? Iggy, you’re–– seventeen. You can afford to act like it every now and again. It’s a good look on you, really._

_That’s…_

_I mean, some of the other guys I hang out with are–– complete meatheads, y’know? Sometimes it’s like you’re the only normal person I know._

_…Well, I… I suppose I do not entirely hate it either. Spending time with you, I mean._

_Was that an actual compliment you just gave me?_

_…I wouldn’t necessarily go that far._

_Haha, listen.. How about if Noct doesn’t show up to practise tomorrow morning, what do you say_ you _do instead? I know you’ve gotten ahead with your training, and I make for a pretty good sparring partner. Especially if you bring those sandwiches you made last time._

_…Those sandwiches were for Noctis, you know._

_And he’s the one who forgot them again, so what’s your point? Anyway, catch ya later – remember, I said six thirty!_

 

*

 

It’s… probably about ten times more ridiculous, actually being here.

The lights of Lestallum undulate through the window blinds, and when Ignis turns back to stir the pot on the stove, Gladio fleetingly has no idea what he’s doing here.

After all, in the first few years without sun it had become obvious that it’s hard to live a life with one foot anchored to your past; Prompto had been the first to disappear for months on end, drowning his heartbreak in hunting, probably, or running before the world had a chance to leave him behind. It wasn’t like anyone could blame him, when the blue glint of Noctis’ magic was the only link still connecting them to a hope that might never come.

And, well… somewhere along the way, Gladio had started to feel like all the words had been said already; exhausted, even, to the point where it was simply easier to be alone. The three of them still ran into each other on occasion, but whatever spark of madness sent him back to Lestallum is unlike anything he’s set his heart on in ages, and he never thought of what he’d do once he actually got here.

But, now he _is_ here, and… well, the two of them have known each other virtually forever, but time makes strangers of all men in the end.

“You’re free to join me for supper, if you wish. Whatever urgent matters you have brought with you, though, I would kindly request we go over it tomorrow. Today… was rather tiring.”

The sound of Ignis’ words brings him back, nearly giving him a start.

“That’s––“ Gladio turns around, and finds Ignis still leaning over the stove; from the side, an unmistakable crease clings to Ignis’ forehead, but it smooths at the caution in Gladio’s voice.

“I’m not on official business, actually,” Gladio continues, with a quick shake of his head. “It’s–– not even that pressing to be honest. But I still wanted to come.” 

Ignis turns to face him completely, now, and something puzzled flickers across his face.

It’s the tiniest crack in his otherwise flawless exterior – sure, his hair is a little more relaxed and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, considering his audience for the night was supposed to be a pot of vegetable soup. Still, mere mortals would find themselves overwhelmed, much like Gladio suddenly finds himself wondering if he ought to have taken two showers instead of one.

“…I see,” Ignis only says, though. His hands press against the side of the stove, but soon beckon at the small table in the corner.

“Then, would you care to share?”

Gladio nods, pulls out a chair. Sits with a creak, before reaching out for his bag. Tries to ignore the nagging feeling that somehow he’s a complete fool for doing this; because whatever meaning he’s attached to this gesture, such nostalgia is only a liability in a world where none of them gets to choose the ending to their story.

Still, he pulls out a small pouch and sets it upon the table.

“I, uh. Came across this, while I was out on a hunt. Thought you might find use for it.”

For a second Ignis stalls, but not out of hesitation. No, if Gladio knows anything about the man before him, it’s that there’s a script inside Ignis’ head for moments just like this, and by going against it Gladio has left them as bewildered as one another.

It comes with a wave of something Gladio cannot quite name (relief? joy? …how _weird_ ), but it’s enough to level the scene before Ignis takes a seat opposite to his.

“…Alright,” Ignis says. “Let’s see what you have brought.”

A pair of hands set upon the pouch, and Gladio watches –with near transfixed expectation– how Ignis’ slender fingers work the strings open. The moment the pouch unfastens, though, the lightest of scents wafts into the room, followed by a choked breath before Ignis’ face sets in a mask of stone.

_Well, you killed him_ , rings the initial voiceover in Gladio’s head, _Guess that went about as well as one could expect._

Yet before he finds his physical voice, or so much as manages to reach out to touch Ignis’ arm, the man reanimates with sudden fire: Ignis’ shoulders draw back, his back straightens, and he pushes back to his feet without a word.

And then he’s by the stove, lifting the whole pot up by the handles, and pours the whole thing down the sink.

_Well, you made him snap_ , rings the second voiceover in Gladio’s head, _A few steps up from murder, but still not the result I’d have preferred._

“Uh,” he finally hazards, watching Ignis vigorously scrape the pot clean. “You okay there, Iggy? You probably noticed this, but… you just tossed roughly two days’ worth of food down the drain.”

“I am _aware_ ,” comes the response, somewhere between a snap and gritted teeth, and Gladio realizes the act must have been as painful for Ignis to execute as it was bizarre to behold. “But it cannot be helped. I cannot have–– the scent of the soup, it would only throw me off. I need complete focus.”

“You what…?” Gladio echoes, but the puzzle is not altogether very hard to piece together; not the pouch still resting on the table, or the surge of intensity that even years of Ignis’ composure lessons cannot conceal.

“As stated, feel free to join me for supper,” Ignis says, then pauses. “However, if you’d rather not… I feel obligated to warn you that you might risk walking away from possibly the best meal of your life.”

For the first time since his arrival, Gladio’s smile reaches all the way to his eyes.

 

*

 

_Ah, listen… This may sound presumptuous of me, but I have a small request._

_Huh? Well, I never thought I’d see the day. Go ahead, shoot – what can I do for ya?_

_There’s… I’m planning on an excursion outside Insomnia. Out on the fields. I’m trying to find… well, it’s a rare ingredient of sorts, and I would appreciate it if you could come._

_Sure, that sounds like no problem. Want the dynamic duo to help out? I’m pretty sure Prompto’ll come if I delete the video of him throwing up after Crownsguard training, and Noct will tag along if I unfreeze his ID from the multiplayer channel._

_…I suppose that would make things faster, yes. What do I owe you for the assistance?_

_Wha–– c’mon Iggy, don’t be an idiot. You don’t need to… No, wait. There is actually something you can do for me in return._

_Hmm?_

_Go out with me, once._

_…._ Excuse _me?_

_It’s–– look, it’s just that you’ve been working like crazy lately–– and yeah I know, I know, it’s because Noct is officially of age now and all the prince shit just kicked into higher gear with marriage negotiations and all but, damn, you look like you haven’t slept in, what, a week?_

_…Your consideration for my complexion is duly noted._

_Shut up, that’s not–– what I mean is, I’m sure Noct’s future political babies can wait for a few days? I’ve probably been saying this for over six years in a row but you really deserve a break._

_…I suppose that’s… possible. Would you like to schedule it for a particular day?_

_Shit, Iggy–– I’m not trying to arrange a business meeting here. How about… after we find that ingredient of yours, you let me try out whatever you’ll use it for?_

_…I never said it was a food ingredient, Gladio._

_You say it like there was ever any chance that it wasn’t._

_…Fine. So you’ll help me search for it and afterwards, we’ll… come to think of it, your love of ambiguous phrasing has left the nature of our meeting rather unclear._

_Well that ultimately depends, doesn’t it?_

_On what?_

_On whether we both find what we’re looking for._

 

*

 

_Half a root of Kettier Ginger. Three gloves of garlic, minced. Freshly ground Leiden pepper. Two large carrots, chopped thin. Quartered Leiden sweet potatoes. Two tablespoons of parsley. One chopped celery. A bay leaf._

He recites the ingredients off memory, but the recipe is off.

It’s not enough to make a regular sauce for the base; there’s always a chance that the ginger will overwhelm the Ndan seeds, now carefully extracted from the stem of the flower. They rest on the chopping board like specks of gold while Ignis’ head races, going hundred miles per hour with countless recipes all at once. Some are too heavy, some too light; some spicy, some sour, some just… not _right_.

“…Maybe sweet pepper?” he mutters to himself, a brief touch scrutinising each container and jar with something only he can identify. “No, what about aegir root… Ah, but that wouldn’t work, given the acidity the heat brings out…”

It’s all too little, when it’s supposed to be _perfect_ ; and either it’s _perfect,_ or it’s nothing at all.

Behind him, he can hear Gladio’s book laid out on the table as he begins to read, and part of Ignis wants to laugh.

In so many ways, it strikes him as nothing short of–– fitting, really, that he finds himself in this predicament: the last thing he would have expected tonight was an actual, fresh Ndan flower delivered to his doorstep, and now that the much-coveted chance is literally back in his hands, Ignis has _absolutely no idea_ what to do with it.

Funny, how it often seems to be that way, when the two of them are concerned.

“You going through some kind of existential crisis over recipes over there?”

The shadows in his peripheral vision shift just enough to indicate Gladio’s moved his chair. There’s a pause before Ignis responds, not quite certain what to say before finally shaking his head. “…I’m only trying to exercise utmost caution.”

The sound of Gladio sucking in his breath cuts the room, before it comes out in a slow exhale.

“Iggy, it’s a bunch of seeds. Not a neutron bomb you’re trying to dismantle.”

The jibe is accurate enough to tug on the side of Ignis’ mouth. “I _know_ that. But this is also a–– rare opportunity, and I would hate for it to go to waste.”

“Look, I’m pretty sure you could sprinkle those things on a loaf of white bread, and I’d still walk away thinking I just had a restaurant quality meal.”

“…That says more about your palate than my cooking, I’m afraid.”

“Are you kidding me? Name one time I missed a single one of your tasting sessions. Don’t lump me in with the brats just because they were always too busy guzzling whipped cream straight out of a can.”

This elicits a definite snort, stifled only half-successfully on the collar of Ignis’ shirt. He turns back to the stove, feeling a little… lighter, than the moment before; he knows Gladio’s right, of course, but the fact that any of this is happening –the emergence of the Ndan, or that Gladio was the person to find one– feels nothing short of crooked irony, and for that alone it all has to _count_.

Count for something, or just count at all, well…

_Either way he’ll walk through that door like he always does_ , the thought settles in his head before he can stop it, _Either way you’ll let him, like you always do._

There’s a faint warmth still lingering on the metal of the stove, pressing into Ignis’ palms.

“…I only want it to be different,” he says into the silence, not sure who he’s really speaking to. “Than it turned out, last time around.”

The metal feels hotter still, when Gladio speaks out and something unreadable sets in his tone.

“…Come to think of it, whatever happened to the original dish you made?”

For a second Ignis feels like someone’s just hit him with the world’s softest sucker punch; one he really should have felt coming the second Gladio stepped inside this room.

After all, for eight years neither one of them has spoken about that day;

but for eight years, neither one of them clearly forgot.

 

*

 

_…Y’know, I don’t know how you do it._

_Do what?_

_You know…_ It _. Get Noct to play along like that. Prompto, him I can understand–– your validation to him is like the world’s biggest Gysahl green to a chocobo, but you’re probably the only person I know who can make the crown prince of Lucis wade through muddy fields without an actual reward._

_Trust me, I make it look far easier than it actually is. I would even go as far as to say… years and years of carefully cultivated groundwork is the key. And the occasional blackmail, of course._

_Well, that I can certainly relate to. With Noct and you both._

_Excuse me?_

_I mean, it took me, what? Years and years of groundwork to actually get you to go out with me, didn’t it?_

_…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t use misleading phrasing. It’s not nearly as funny as you think it is._

_What if it’s not meant to be either?_

_…I don’t think I quite follow._

_Look, Iggy… I don’t know how to quite spell this out for you. It’s a little hard to figure you out sometimes._

_I don’t personally consider myself hard to figure out._

_What? Are you serious? Back when we were teens I thought you couldn’t even stand me most of the time. Imagine my face when I told Noct as much and he laughed for like five minutes straight. While holding a_ greatsword _no less._

_I… I never meant to give off that kind of an impression. I apologize if I did._

_Nah. It’s fine, that’s all–– in the past, anyway. Besides, the whole reason I like you is because you keep me on my toes, you know? Not many people can do that. I’m more used to just… people folding. Or running away._

_That wouldn’t have anything to do with your ability to break a grown man in two in roughly five seconds, would it?_

_You flatter me. I’d say… seven seconds._

_…I still fail to see what any of that has to do with needing something spelled out for me, though._

_Hah, leave it to you not to gloss over the tiny print._

_Leave it to you to resort to tactics of diversion._

_Then that makes two of us, huh? I mean, I’d say I’ve tried being a–– pretty straightforward person, really. Well, so much as a guy can be when trying to manoeuvre between you and your sense of duty._

_Gladiolus Amicitia, there is absolutely nothing straightforward about that entire sentence._

_C’mon, don’t get snipy with me. It’s not like you make it any easier by being so obtuse._

_I still fail to understand how I––_

_––Gods, for once it’d be great if I could just–– I dunno, bust out of that composure for me, okay?_

_…Gladio?_

_I mean, it’s like… we’ve been stuck in this same loop for a freaking lifetime. I know I’ll never be able to compete with what Noct means to you, but it’d be real nice knowing I’m at least getting through to_ something _._

_And what is_ that _supposed to––_

_No, forget it. This was–– I don’t even know what I’m getting at here. That was a shitty thing for me to say, and we should pretend like it never happened._

_…Because that’s how it always works for you, is it?_

_Huh?_

_Did you ever consider even for a second that all of it–– all of this, right here, could be impossible for me to figure out too?_

_What the––_

_You say one thing, you act like it’s a joke, you say another thing, you act like it’s not. It’s as though I am_ trying _to follow each instruction, but all they do is cancel each other out._

_Hey, I don’t––_

_And then you have the–– actual audacity to imply that_ I’m _the one being unreasonable?! That my royal duties are somehow your burden––_

_I NEVER said they were a burden, Iggy. Shit, I’m–– there’s_ nobody _on this whole goddamn Eos who knows what your life is like more than I do. I would_ never _challenge your loyalty or your dedication. That’s not what I want._

_Then what_ do _you want?_

_I…_

_….?_

_……_

_…Oh._

_…Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have––_

_It’s… no, you caught me by… surprise, is all._

_I mean, I swear I don’t go around kissing random people whenever I get frustrated._

_…That’s… an oddly specific disclaimer, but alright._

_So… the fact that you haven’t punched the shit out of me for doing it, does that mean…_

_…Well, I…_

_No, actually, you don’t have to answer me right now._

_….?_

_Maybe, by the time you finish that dish of yours, you might also… know._

_…Know what, exactly?_

_Well… how it is that you want this–– anything about us to go._

 

*

 

At first, he’s not sure why he says it.

For eight years, he never said a word; not about that afternoon, or the one that never followed.

Still, the familiarity of the scene is impossible to ignore: rummaging through his entire pantry, Ignis clearly hasn’t been as dedicated to a recipe since Noctis’ favourite pastry from Tenebrae. Back then, Ignis had been a man on a mission, hour after hour of fine-tuning the flavours just to recreate a gateway to the past; the only logical explanation for Ignis’ current frenzy, then, is that once upon a time there was a dish created around this particular spice.

The only problem is, it’s one food-related memory Gladio knows _he_ wasn’t around to share.

And so the words tumble out before he can help himself: “Come to think of it… Whatever happened to the original dish you made?”

It might be a little petty. Or a whole lot petty, as much as Gladio likes to consider himself a reasonable man. But beneath the words is also a sting he’s carried with him for eight long years; whether or not he’s long since resigned to never receiving closure, if he’s come all the way from Duscae to witness Ignis driving down some other memory lane, Gladio’s not sure what he wants is a front row seat.

It’s clearly not the right conclusion to jump to, though.

When he glances up at Ignis the look on his face is–– no, it must be Gladio’s imagination, because what reason would Ignis have to look so… torn?

“…Sorry, that’s none of my business, huh?” Gladio is quick to shake his head, quick to accept the punch of his conscience for letting that old disappointment rear its head. It’s not like Ignis ever _owed_ him an answer, any more than he owes him special treatment just for some impulsive, foolish kiss back when they were barely out of their teens––

“No, that’s––“ Ignis finally finds his voice, and it feels like an echo, feels like an infinite loop. “It’s a fair question.”

A pause, and the creaking of floorboards where Ignis shifts his balance.

“The truth is, back then… I only ended up throwing away my chance.”

Gladio draws in a breath, then exhales.

So maybe he’s–– reading _way_ too much into this. Maybe he should just be content (relieved?) knowing Ignis is not out to recreate the ghost of some person outside this room. But the two of them have always spoken in circles around one another, and it’s obvious Ignis hasn’t forgotten either.

So what, exactly, is he meant to do?

(There’s no way they’re talking about the same thing; no way, no way, _no way_ ––

––is again, what someone smarter than Gladio might say; but even if he’s about to mistake the double-entendre, everything about this return to Lestallum has been a gamble, and either way the only option is to try.)

When he leans against the cabinet next to the stove, Gladio could swear Ignis nearly flinches.

“…I guess we just gotta make sure history doesn’t repeat itself, then,” he says, but in spite of the lightness it’s also not a joke.

On instinct, Ignis’ head lifts in his direction. When the response comes, it’s… ambiguous as always, yet also strangely honest. “…I’m not sure how it could not. Perhaps, no matter how closely I follow the instructions, the end result remains the same.”

Gladio considers this, for a moment.

“Then, you ever thought of just… I dunno, wingin’ it?”

At this, Ignis frowns. “Excuse me?”

“Whatever you’re thinking of–– y’know, this grand recipe of yours––“ Gladio goes on, a little out of his depth, but trying all the same. “…Did you ever think that it might not even exist? That maybe it can’t be perfect. But it can still be… well, yours.”

To Gladio’s credit, Ignis comes to a pause.

“You mean,” he responds then, “That I should work off the book.”

In spite of himself, Gladio cannot help but smile. “Y’know, that was always a good look on you.”

Neither one of them says anything at that.

And yet, something in the air still changes.

 

*

 

_Oh, hey, I… Long time no see, huh?_

_…My apologies. I have had my hands full with preparing Noct for the annual administration luncheon. It has been… a busy week._

_…Or two, but hey, who’s counting?_

_…I trust you have been well, though._

_Yeah, you know me, I’m always… great. As a matter of fact, I’m just… fan-fucking-tastic._

_….._

_…Sorry. Slept pretty shitty lately and–– Look, whatever. How about we both just focus on getting Prince Fishing Addict into a presentable shape for that luncheon, yeah?_

_Gladio…_

_You should drop by practice sometime, it’s really quite the sight. Him and Prompto have this new link-strike that might actually be worth something against more than tiny woodland animals._

_That… sounds impressive, indeed._

_Yeah, and get this–– Prompto doesn’t even look like he’s gonna spontaneously combust every time they train side mounts together, so I’d say remarkable progress all around, huh?_

_Yes, you’ve… you have made good use of your time._

_Ha, you and me both – this whole show runs on both of our efforts, right?_

_…Right._

_So, don’t worry about it, yeah? I mean, I guess you wouldn’t, since nothing gets past your cool… Well, besides Noct forgetting to eat his fruit crumpets again, but don’t worry, I never let them go to waste._

_……_

_Anyway, I’ll see you around, Iggy–– oh, and tell Noct that he should work more on his own ‘about to spontaneously combust’ face, assuming he doesn’t want anyone to notice._

_Wait, Gladio––_

_…Yeah?_

_…It’s… it’s nothing. I’ll… relay your message to the prince._

 

*

 

_Smoking wood. Schier turmeric. The fillet of sea bass, and fine Cleigne wheat._

There’s a hum in Ignis’ ears, and he tries to still his hands.

If there’s anything he hates in life, it’s the unpredictability of weather. During their road trip across Lucis, few things could sour Ignis’ mood as much as the sky cracking down as soon as he had set up the grill: fifteen minutes worth of preparation wasted, all because Mother Nature was feeling particularly moody that day. _It’s not a question of weather, it’s a question of your gear,_ Gladio had always said, and Ignis hated that too – because _you_ try explaining to a hungry and cranky prince why each Chickatrice leg has gone dry overnight.

Then again, of course Gladio would say that; after all, the man is the best and worst parts of the wilderness shoved into a six foot six frame. And tonight, well, is one of those moody days on the fields of Cleigne, where the sky breaks in the blink of an eye; somewhere outside it has started raining, and Ignis cannot read Gladio’s shifts any more than he can predict the weather.

“…Iggy. Ig. _Ignis_.”

It takes three versions of the name to rouse Ignis’ attention back to Gladio, which is lucky since the fourth might include a snap of his fingers, which would also earn Gladio a frying pan in the face.

“You still with me? Or did the shallots and soup stocks claim you again?”

A vigorous shake of his head, and Ignis’ thoughts clear. Enough for now, anyhow.

“No, I–– I’m listening,” he manages, and suddenly it’s altogether impossible to ignore how small this kitchen corner is, the side of Gladio’s forearm brushing his shoulder every time he moves.

This is crazy.

It’s been _eight years_ , and none of this should–– _matter_ anymore; he’d always assumed as much over Gladio’s silence, and the way their friendship had resumed its course after a few awkward weeks. But it’s just as crazy that Gladio would still remember the colour of the Ndan, let alone that the flower hadn’t gone extinct in all this time – and it’s all such terrible symbolism for this whole mess of a relationship that Ignis kind of wants to groan.

After all, how could Gladio have known. He wasn’t even _there_.

(Wasn’t there, to see the way his hands still trembled two days after the kiss; wasn’t there, to taste a single mouthful of the perfectly crafted dish; wasn’t there to sense something inside Ignis coming undone in a sudden flash of anxiety, before the whole pan came crashing across the floor with a well-placed strike of his hand.)

He never did give Gladio an answer, no.

Because how do you tell someone you’re more willing to sabotage yourself than risk what lies beyond the things you cannot control?

“…Okay, I’m gonna need some kind of sign of life,” Gladio’s voice comes a little closer now; at that, Ignis finally turns – and a soft but determinate finger shoves him square in the forehead.

“You kinda look like you’re flitting between two different planes of existence,” Gladio adds, but there’s something strangely… _fond_ in his tone, and it does very peculiar things to Ignis’ heart. “…Gonna need you to stay in the present for this one, though.”

…Maybe it’s not so crazy, in the end.

Because if there really is no script to follow, then there’s never really a final page; and if there is no final page, there’s never really a way to fail; and while the sheer thought of this makes something leap and twist in his stomach, the only thing left now is to do what he does best:

Take a deep breath, brace himself, and get to work.

“Hand me that sauté pan and the olive oil to your left. In the overhead cupboard, there’s onions – give me one medium sized one. Next to it there should be a paper bag full of new Leiden potatoes, which I also need, and… well, you should probably get me the entire bottle of red from that cabinet.”

To Gladio’s credit, he doesn’t even blink at the instructions – though he does pause at the last one.

“…You sure you need that much wine for a single dish?”

Ignis could stare at him directly for being so slow, but just cracks his neck and straightens his shoulders.

“Don’t be daft,” he says, matter-of-factly. “Clearly, most of it is meant for me.”

 

*

 

_You ever feel like there’s like, ten more Astrals looking at us from somewhere above and laughing?_

_That’s a rather theatrical way of describing tonight, but I do agree with the intent._

_Seriously, it’s like–– every time you feel things are starting to fall into place, something happens and we’re back to square one. You’d think that after what happened to Insomnia these assholes could chill a little–– but no._

_You mean the Empire, or the hypothetical Astrals?_

_Either, I guess. Gotta hand it to Noct, though–– so far he’s taking everything in a stride._

_…Both of you are. He’s not the only one who recently lost a father._

_I…_

_…It’s alright. Iris isn’t–– here now, so you don’t need to act strong for her sake._

_…Shouldn’t have expected any less of you, huh…? …Thanks, though, for not saying anything earlier._

_…On the contrary, I sometimes feel I should say more._

_Eh?_

_You spend so much time protecting others, sometimes I’m not sure who really looks after you._

_Ig–– Iggy, that’s not_ your _job. You’ve got one kid –hell, two kids– giving you enough grey hairs as is._

_That’s beside the point. Just because I’m oath-bound to my King, doesn’t mean I’m not also your friend._

_…Hah. I’d hate to be the guy who tries to oppose you for real._

_Then–– you’ll let me?_

_Let you what?_

_…Take care of y–– ah, this._

_…Huh?_

_The–– the camp. I’m talking about the set-up, clean-up, of course – tonight and tomorrow morning, just leave it all to me._

_…Is that so?_

_Anyway, you can–– feel free to join the_ kids _in the tent if you want. From the sounds of it, they finally stopped arguing about who beat who in that damned game and are already fast asleep._

_…Listen, I’ll play along, but on one condition._

_Hmm?_

_I want any remaining leftovers of today’s fish skewers, and instead of catching z’s, I’m gonna recite the plot of this novel I just finished because the unhappy ending makes no sense._

_…That’s_ two _conditions, Gladio._

_Yes, and you’ll deny me neither, because then you wouldn’t be taking proper care_ of me _, right Iggy?_

_…I’m starting to regret everything already._

 

*

 

It’s a little ridiculous, how warm the sight makes him feel.

The way Ignis’ brow knits in concentration, lost in a world of lemon zest and braised fish – Gladio _knows_ that look like the back of his hand. Gone is the former hesitation, the way Ignis paused at each ingredient; it’s like a switch has clicked into different gear in his head, steamrolling over any doubt that may have stood on his path.

Even when the Ndan seeds pour into a mortar, no doubt stalls the gesture. A couple of grinds is all it takes for the scent to take flight and settle into the room: a strong, heady smell that soon mixes with wine and other spices on the pan. It’s hard to say what exactly goes in, because of how quickly one move follows the other; perhaps some fennel, a slice or two of lemon, definitely garlic.

Gladio was right. It _is_ a good look on him.

And sure, maybe the wine is partially to thank for the way Ignis’ posture relaxes over the next half an hour, but most of it is also just… _this_ : the hiss of boiling potatoes, the richness of the air, the way both of them can somehow–– talk normally again, even with the hypothetical Catoblepas standing in the room. Or perhaps, it is exactly why: now that they both know it’s there, they can mutually agree to ignore it at least until Ignis has finished cooking.

“So, I guess the little guy’s not gone and gotten himself eaten by a flan yet?”

The fillets slide into the pan, and a light flick of Ignis’ wrist covers them with the sauce of wine. “I understand he’s taken a liking to Hammerhead lately. By this, I can only assume that a certain miss Aurum finally grew used to his terrible pick-up lines.”

In spite of himself, Gladio’s brows lift in half-surprise. “ _Oh._ ”

“Don’t get too excited,” Ignis is quick to shoot him down, though. “It would not surprise me if the two of them made for a pair of excellent friends, now that there’s nothing left for him to desperately compensate for.”

“…Nothing, or no- _one_ _?”_

“Was there ever much of a difference?”

Gladio shakes his head a little. “…I guess not, no. But you and Prompto were always different in that regard.”

“….Hmm?” Ignis murmurs in response, seemingly focused on the steam that touches his face; still, it’s clear his attention is not compromised.

“Well, it’s obvious–– that both of you lived––“ Gladio pauses, then corrects himself, “ _Live_ for your King. But it’s also not the same thing.”

The sound of simmering fish fills the room for a moment, before Ignis replies: “…Unsolicited as this psychological evaluation is, do go on.”

Gladio tilts his head, catching a glimpse of the fish slowly turning opaque underneath the sauce. It’s a strangely hypnotic sight, rivalled only by the subtle shifts on Ignis’ face; the heat of the stove makes his features almost… glow, like the golden flicker of the only lamp in the room.

Before his mind has a chance to wander, Gladio lets out a laugh. “We’re all in the same boat here, don’t get me wrong,” he says, instinctively running a hand through his hair. “You know what I mean, though–– there’s nothing I ever admired as much as your dedication to Noct, but with Prompto, well…”

At the fadeout, Ignis rewards him with an unexpected, small smile – like some age-old truth that bears no repeating, if only for how self-evident it is.

“…You’re allowed to say it, Gladio. I’m pretty sure he’s long since figured it out himself, dense as both of them always were.”

Whether the tense is intentional, Gladio can’t tell. Whether the double-entendre is intentional too, well, it’s even harder to say. The whole night has been paved with indirect invitations, but it’s also not–– time, yet, to bridge the _then_ with the _now_.

“…In the end, that’s his weight of regret to bear,” is what he settles on, and is almost surprised at the sympathy in his tone.

Ignis’ shoulders tense, if ever so slightly; but it’s gone before Gladio can second guess his wording, broken by the clatter of Ignis pulling the pan off the stove.

“…I’m going to finish the onions. But it won’t be long until I’m done. You should take a seat.”

Gladio does not second guess this either, crossing over to where his book still lies on the table. It’s a silly, adventure type of thing; something with happy endings, and characters who find it easy to express how they feel. But when he glances back over to Ignis, no part of him would trade this moment for such stories – because some happy endings are better served well-deserved.

It’s a pun Ignis would definitely appreciate, Gladio thinks in passing, when the man finally turns and tilts his head.

“…I’m sorry for making you wait,” Ignis says, and the light still flickers, and all of him glows.

This time it’s not a double-entendre, and both of them know.

 

*

 

_Well… I guess I could tell you to take care, but I know you will, so… don’t go and get yourself killed before Noct returns, alright?_

_I might share the sentiment, but that would also make it sound like a goodbye._

_And we’ve sure had enough of those to last a lifetime, huh…? So what do you say, we just… I dunno, walk away, and next time we see each other, pick up from where we left off?_

_I suppose that would make sense._

_I mean, if it’s easier not to, then you don’t gotta––_

_––I will._

_Hah, I appreciate the straightforwardness. That… suits you too._

_To be fair, most of my second guesses were exhausted the day I decided to wear that ring._

_Shit, Iggy…_

_Yes?_

_…I know everything was kind of a mess back there, and it’s even a bigger mess now, but… I want you to know that everything you did for Noct–– I failed him, not you._

_…You didn’t fail anything._

_I failed_ both _of you._

_That’s––_

_––I know it was your choice. And I respect that, damn, you know I do. But if there’s one thing I could take back, it’s that day in Altissia, and there’s nothing you can say to change that._

_…There’s nothing you can say to change what happened, either._

_…Then, can I promise you something?_

_Gladio––_

_Just–– even if it’s just a way to ease my conscience, as pathetic as that might be._

_…Of course. Anything._

_Whatever it is that I’m not strong enough for now, I… I’ll find a way to become that person. So by the time Noct comes back, there won’t be any regrets left, and nothing between us and our duty._

_I… see. Then, I’ll also work my hardest, to be someone who could once more stand by your side._

_Don’t be ridiculous Iggy, none of us think you couldn’t––_

_…Not just the King or the Crownsguard, Gladio. The person I also want to be stronger for is… you._

 

*

 

_Wine-braised sea bass, sautéd onion, buttered rosemary new Leiden potatoes._

It’s a very simple recipe.

_Too simple_ , a voice at the back of his mind might say, but this time he’s not listening; not paying attention to any inner saboteurs, just because there’s no script to how it all goes from here.

“I’m afraid there’s little in the way of drink selection to accompany the food, but we will simply have to make do what we have got.”

Gladio doesn’t appear bothered. The plates are nothing fancy, and the presentation is less immaculate than Ignis obviously would have strived for back in the day, but none of this matters either; as the heat of the stove slowly dies down, all that remains is the scent of the final dish filling the room.

Ignis takes the opposite seat.

For a moment, all he does is sit there. It’s not out of nervousness, or even caution – with or without the help of liquid courage, it’s as though hesitation has left his body. What’s left is something closer to exhaustion, as though he’s spent years working for this single moment: now that it’s here, it almost feels… bewildering, to realize it’s all coming to an end.

He can tell Gladio’s waiting for him, perhaps for some sign of permission; instead of offering him one, though, Ignis lifts up his own fork. Hovers it over the fish for a second, maybe two. At long last, he breathes in the spices and goes for broke, tearing off a small piece of the fillet before setting it in his mouth.

There are no extravagant fireworks, or stars exploding in his eyes.

Instead, there is something… _better_ ; because it’s a warmth that settles underneath his skin and seeps into every bone in his body, spreading down his arms in a tingling stream. As the richness of spice kicks in after the first mouthful, it’s like (the first day of Summer) (the first snow of Winter) (the first time you fell in love) a maelstrom of memories, nestling in his chest as if somehow that day on the outskirts of Insomnia never really came to an end.

He says nothing, but gestures lightly at Gladio to proceed.

There’s a clink of his plate, then silence.

“…So?” Ignis finally hazards, trying to keep his tone even. “…How does it taste?”

He hears the way Gladio draws in a breath, as though he’s about to say something; then exhales, as though he forgets. But before Ignis can ask the question again, there’s finally a response: four small words, and a voice on the brink of breaking.

“…It tastes like home.”

Maybe, the reason he feels no anxiety is because deep down Ignis already knows the answer. Maybe, he feels no fear because there’s no other way this was ever going to go. After all, despite all the years and scars and countless goodbyes, it’s the one answer that always holds true for them both.

And so; when Ignis pushes back the chair, there’s a sound like Gladio giving a tiny start. A sound like another breath drawn, sharper this time, where his hands settle on Gladio’s shoulders, then neck; for a moment neither of them moves, the pause itself one last confirmation before Ignis slowly leans over, and finds his lips.

There are no fireworks in that moment, either.

There’s no rumbling of the earth, or a sky breaking down.

Instead, there’s something _stronger_ , because the years have washed out all the excuses, the apologies, and the fears; as the weight of history kicks in during the initial kiss, it’s like (the last day of innocence) (the last year of youth) (the last time you broke your heart) a maelstrom of memories, all of which could surely hurt – but it’s also… not that kind of love.

They break apart when Gladio shifts from his chair, and the balance between their heights changes; it throws Ignis off for a good second and a half until a hand settles on the small of his back, to brace him for the subtle dip. There’s something altogether relaxed about the second (third? fourth?) kiss, in the laid-back energy that he could always count on coming from Gladio, and it feels–– organic, really, enough to make it difficult to imagine eight whole years having passed between this and the first one.

Or, as Ignis eventually mutters, fingers catching the front of Gladio’s shirt once he pauses for breath, “…I take it this counts as… a favourable review.”

A chuckle warms the side of his face, soon replaced by a quick brush of Gladio’s thumb.

“Don’t know about that. Superior as the food always is, I’d say the service at this restaurant is little on the slow side.”

The look on Ignis’ face must be a sight to behold, because it elicits even more heartfelt laughter; but where it tickles his skin the laugh also feels entirely welcome, like part of him wants the touch of it to stay there forever.

Forever, forever… well, perhaps it’s still too soon to say (if there’s such a thing as _forever_ , anyway).

Still, he lets the tug of his mouth turn into a smile.

“…Any terrible novels you have finished lately?” he asks, and clearly fails at the attempt at nonchalance, given how the hand on his back flits around his waist. It only takes a light tug and he’s sitting again, only this time not in his own chair but Gladio’s own.

“Funny you should ask,” comes the voice, trailing towards the kitchen corner and then back again; the sound that hits the table is nothing less than the entire pan of fish, and when Gladio drags the other chair next to his, their knees bump against one another.

“I was planning on reading the dumbest chapter to you aloud.”

Ignis leans on his elbow, idly picks up a fork that’s not even his.

“…Only one?” he says, pretending to miss the way Gladio’s other arm returns to touch his waist. “I’m sure if you tried, you could manage the whole novel tonight.”

In response, Gladio snorts. “What do you think I’m stocking up all this protein for?”

He nudges at Ignis’ shoulder, then shoves the other plate towards him. “C’mon, there’s some twenty thousand gil worth of sauce on that fish, and you’re the one who always gave us lectures about letting food get cold.”

It’s true, of course.

What Gladio says is true, too – because he does spend the rest of that night reading an entire novel out loud, the two of them later cramped up on Ignis’ bed in the second room.

Fully clothed and with his head hitched somewhere in the crook between Gladio’s neck and shoulder, it’s not exactly–– the stuff of his teenage dreams, maybe, but it’s what his dreams are made of now: the steady heartbeat beneath his hands, the hand that draws lazy patterns on his back, the soft voice that imitates each character as the hero fights for his heroine and everyone lives cheesily ever after.

Alright, so the clothes part is optional, and might well turn out to be, sometime in the hours between here and the morning – but that’s all still in the future, and all he needs is the now.

Because it’s not possible to live in the past, any more than you can endlessly wait for the future;

but if the present is proof of all existence, _now_ is where everything begins.

 

*

 

_And in the end they say, they say:_  

_how does it always turn out this way_

_but you were well worth waiting for,_

_anyway_

 

 

\- fin

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: the name of the fictional flower comes from a baby name website by picking a name at random and then splitting it in half. The original name, I later realized, is _Handan_ – which apparently means "full of joy". How about that for a coincidence.
> 
> Anyway, now that I have this monster of a story out of the way, expect to see me going back to my regular Promptis nonsense before long. After all these angsty fics I am DYING to write some dumbassery, since that is what I live for. Well, that and the aforementioned angst, but mostly dumbassery.
> 
> Again: thank you so much for reading, whoever you are, internet friend.


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